Into the Devil's Underground (8 page)

“Just me around here.”

Nathan offered him a bottle of water. “What’s your name?”

“Blaze.” He chugged the water and pointed to his bright red hair.

“You noticed anyone out of the ordinary down here?” Nathan asked.

“You’re kidding right, kid?” Blaze snorted. “No one down here is ordinary.”

“Yeah, but you all know each other, right?

“So?”

“So has there been anyone around you didn’t know?” Nathan asked. “You heard any stories about a guy sneaking around here, up to no good?”

“People come and go all the time. Lot of ‘em are up to something. I don’t make it my business to find out what.”

“Keep your eye out, will you?” Johnson asked. “You see anyone new, anyone running scared, call it in.”

“One more thing,” Nathan said. “You know anything about the devil’s underground?”

“You’re in it,” Blaze said. “Least, that’s what some people call the tunnels.”

“Why?” Chris asked.

“It kind of fits, don’t it? I don’t know who started it, but somewhere underneath the Bellagio is a mural with hell’s gates and hopeless souls. Devil’s underground is painted on top of it. Guess the name stuck. Got a bunch of writing with it, but I don’t remember what it is.” Blaze tossed the empty plastic bottle into the water. “Thanks for the drink.” He disappeared back into the tunnel.

Devil’s underground. It did make sense. After all, Vegas was known as Sin City, full of glitz and glamour and secrets. Below the bright lights stretched a frightening type of purgatory.

“Look around.” Johnson waved his light across the channel. “On the off chance the perp came through here, maybe he left something.”

The search of the drains continued past four a.m. but turned up empty. Nathan wasn’t surprised. The partner was too smart.

“I’m burning these clothes.” Nathan tossed the Kevlar vest into the truck.

“God, yes.” Chris kicked a vest out of the way and sat down. “Then taking a shower in bleach.”

“Time for you to get to UMC and get that arm taken care of,” Johnson ordered.

Nathan hated hospitals. Their sterile walls contained too much pain and sorrow, and the unhappiness caused a surge of memories he’d rather bury. Still, he couldn’t put off his injury any longer. Last thing he needed was muscle damage.

“A patrol officer told me once he’d heard rumors of a troll in the tunnels.” Chris glanced back over his shoulder as they climbed into the SWAT truck. “After being inside that fifth circle of hell, wouldn’t surprise me.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I hope they put that woman under some kind of protective custody.” Chris unloaded his Glock and shoved the clip into the pocket of his fatigues.

The heavy weight of blame kept Nathan silent. He’d suspected the partner had a separate agenda. He should have moved more quickly, should have stopped Emilie and the partner before they hit the stairs.

The advice his sister had been giving him for years played in his mind. “You can’t take on the world just because you feel guilty about the past.”

Still, he should have figured out the partner’s intentions sooner. If he had, Emilie would be sleeping peacefully tonight instead of looking over her shoulder in constant fear.

*   *   *   *

T
HE ROOM WAS
like every other hospital room she’d been in: white, sterile, and freezing. Emilie sat on the standard-issue bed trying not to touch the cold plastic sides while the flash of the police photographer’s camera attempted to blind her. He’d taken so many pictures she’d lost count—pictures of the bruises on her face and shoulder, the scrapes on her arm and knee—even her broken fingernails.

“Do you have enough yet? Surely a hundred and nine will suffice.”

The photographer ceased his repetitive clicking and cocked his head. “You’ve been counting?”

“Never mind.”

“We just have a few more questions,” said FBI Agent Sia Ronson. Emilie already liked her better than Avery. Her classic gray suit was nice but not flashy, her voice calm and reassuring. Avery had bristled when the agent entered, but she’d smoothly convinced him he needed to deal with the press while she interviewed Emilie.

“Tell me about the lilies and poem.” Ronson sat in a chair next to the bed, her expression neutral, but keen awareness in her dark eyes.

“Casablanca lilies mean celebration.” The words lodged in Emilie’s throat. She swallowed hard. “He said they were a perfect flower for today’s occasion. That today was just the beginning.”

“Do those specific lilies mean anything to you?”

“Definitely not celebration. They were on my grandmother’s casket—her favorite flower. So I don’t like to have them around.”

Ronson’s sympathetic smile seemed sincere. “I understand. For me it’s roses. My dad. He used to bring them home once a week. He said their smell made the house seem like spring.”

Heat lit up Emilie’s cheeks the way it always did during any high emotion. “At least I’m not the only one.”

“Not at all,” Ronson said. “What about the Blake poem? Was it special to you?”

“It’s one of my favorites, but no one knows that. I’ve never told anyone.”

Curiosity flickered across Ronson’s face. Emilie waited for her to ask why the poetry was such a secret. Instead, Ronson made a note and said, “Can you remember anything else?”

There was nothing she could forget. “After the hostage was picked, the partner said not to worry, that he’d take care of me.”

“What else did the partner say?”

Emilie told Ronson about Creepy’s strange ramblings. His voice echoed in her head as her exhausted body began to shake. She wrapped her arms around her chest.

Ronson handed her the thin hospital blanket draped over the end of the bed. “Did the partner ever mention anything about the tunnels? Something that may not have specifically related to the bank but to the storm system in general?”

“No, just what I already told you about the devil’s underground. I never dreamed he meant the storm drains.” Her skull felt like vice grips trapped it. “When can I get out of here?”

“Soon. Can you give us a better physical description? In comparison to my coloring—was he lighter or darker?”

Emilie looked at the agent’s mocha-colored skin. It was smooth and glowing, with very little makeup except a dab of color on her lips. “Lighter.”

“How much lighter?”

She tried to envision the brief glimpses of skin, but every image brought a flash of his haunting, watchful eyes. “I don’t know. Quite a bit.”

“Is there anything else you can remember?” Ronson asked.

“Did Detective Avery tell you about the partner’s…err…excitement?”

“Yes.” Ronson tapped her pencil against her cheek. “I don’t know if the reaction came from direct physical contact with you or because he thought the two of you were about to make a great escape. But clearly there’s a sexual component to his fascination with you.”

Ronson didn’t need to say more. Emilie knew what would have happened had Creepy Guy managed to succeed with his nefarious plan. She imagined being forced down into the filth of the tunnels and his hands all over her. He would have no doubt continued his strange commentary, as genteel as ever while he violated her. And then what? Death? Another go?

“Anything else?”

She tried to quell the shaking. It only got worse. “He was just…different.”

“How so?” Ronson leaned back in the chair and closed her notebook. “Tell me whatever impression you can think of.”

“He was polite, almost formal. He even called me Miss Emilie. Joe was constantly agitated, but the partner never got upset, except…”

“Except what?”

“I asked Joe if I could go to the bathroom. I just wanted to get away from the other guy for a few minutes. Creepy offered to take me. I knew I couldn’t let him get me alone, so I said no.”

“What did he say?” Ronson asked.

“Nothing. He didn’t have to. His eyes said enough. He was furious.”

Ronson nodded her head, as if she’d expected the answer. “When did this happen?”

“Not long before SWAT came in.”

“Other than the flowers today, have you had any other weird things happen?” Ronson asked. “Other strange gifts or notes? Weird calls?”

“No.” The only people who called her were her boss, Jeremy, or sometimes his wife. An employee calling in sick. That was it. Nothing special in her life.

“You hadn’t noticed anyone following you or the same person turning up wherever you went?”

“No.”

Ronson applied Chapstick with a careful, delicate touch—a gesture that contrasted the rest of her demeanor. “Why didn’t you know about the door? You’re the branch manager.”

“The building is only about five years old, but the basement is an original foundation from a previous building,” Emilie said. “That room has been storage since the bank was built. The drywall’s been there for as long as I have. In fact, it needed to be replaced. My boss and I had been talking about doing that.”

“Was the previous building a bank?”

“No, an old hotel—one of the city’s first. WestOne bought the property for its new location. Building inspectors said the foundation was solid, so the architect saw no reason to tear it out.” A sudden thought occurred to Emilie. “The wall’s been blocked by boxes and old equipment for a long time. When did he move that stuff? He didn’t do it today.”

Ronson glanced at the floor, licking her freshly moistened lips. Bits and pieces of realization began to kick in. Emilie couldn’t stop talking. “And after he got the drywall off, how did he get the door open? It had to have been sealed for years.”

Agent Ronson focused on her notes. “I don’t like to jump to conclusions.”

“You’re an FBI agent,” Emilie snapped. “You’ve got instincts, right? What does your gut tell you?”

“This is a complicated individual.” Ronson folded her arms, notebook still in her hand. She watched Emilie as if bracing for a meltdown.
She’s probably dealt with hundreds of freaked out, rambling victims.
“We’ve only touched the surface of what he’s capable of.”

“Why did he try to take me from the bank?” Emilie asked the other question that was driving her crazy. “Snatching me from my apartment would have been easier.”

“That’s one of the first questions I want answered,” Ronson said. “He referred to Dante, talked about the road to hell. It sounds as if he needed to take you into the tunnels, as if that is part of his compulsion.”

“You never answered my first question.” Emilie’s head spun. “How did he get the door open? How did he find out about the tunnel? And not only an escape tunnel under the bank but one that led to the storm drain system?”

“You told us the storage room door should have been locked,” Ronson said. “Who has keys?”

“Me. Jeremy, the branch president; Lisa, my loan officer; and Miranda, my head teller. Lisa has a bad habit of leaving hers lying around. Someone could have made a copy.” A wave of fear rippled up her spine. “What are you getting at?”

Ronson stood, brushing the wrinkles out of her suit. She laid a smooth hand on Emilie’s arm. “I don’t want to further upset you, but at this point, we have to assume he had help.”

“What kind of help?” She knew what the agent was going to say. There was only one possible answer.

“The kind that only someone with inside knowledge of the bank would have.”

Emilie dropped her head to her hands. That meant someone she worked with disliked her. She knew exactly who that someone would be. Lisa had worked at the bank longer than Emilie, and her sights had always been set on management. Her unfriendly attitude and inability to work with others had squashed that hope. She’d been furious when Emilie was promoted to branch manager.

“Lisa.” Emilie chest hurt with the force of her exhale. “She left at noon today, and she’s not exactly my biggest fan.”

7

N
ATHAN CLENCHED HIS
teeth and counted the flecks in the tile floor as the doctor stitched his wound. It wasn’t the pain—a strong shot had taken care of that—but the peculiar feeling of the thread moving inside his skin.

“Since you didn’t get this taken care of right away, you’re going to scar,” the doctor said. “You’re lucky it didn’t hit any muscle.”

“Good deal.” Nathan managed just as the curtain was yanked back. Special Agent Sia Ronson, smartly put together in a gray pantsuit, shook her head at him.

“Big hero.” Ronson had cropped her hair since Nathan last saw her. The short style suited her.

“Just doing my job. I’m damn glad you caught the case.” Nathan worked with Ronson over a year ago during a major investigation of a child sex ring. She knew how to handle big cases and still have compassion for the victims, two qualities Dalton Avery lacked.

“It’s bizarre.” Ronson propped herself against the small counter. “What can you tell me about the partner?”

Nathan frowned. “He wasn’t there for the money. I don’t think he ever intended to steal the money. It was all about Emilie.” He detailed the man’s constant watch over Emilie, the way his body language suggested ownership. “Sia, you haven’t seen the tunnel under the bank yet. He took some time. Made it safe. Right under the bank’s nose.”

“No question he had inside help,” Ronson said. “Davis suggested Lisa Craig, an employee she’s had issues with and who wasn’t working today. But I’m damned sure going to check into everyone.”

“She’s not safe.” Nathan wished he had a shirt that wasn’t covered in blood. The doctor finished wrapping his arm in clean gauze, instructing him to change the wrapping twice a day and keep it clean. He’d need the stitches checked in two weeks.

“Davis?” Ronson said.

“There’s no way this guy will stop.” Nathan reached for his things. “Not after all the effort he put into today. You guys are going to have to assign a patrol to her.”

“I plan to.” Ronson followed him out of the small room. “You need to get home and get some rest. How long will you be off duty?”

“No idea. Depends how much Johnson wants to punish me for letting myself become a hostage.” Nathan shrugged into his clothes.

“Why’d you do that?”

“He was going to kill the guy. What was I supposed to do?” He could have tried to keep Joe talking. Joe, who turned out to be just as much of a victim in the partner’s game. How different were he and Nathan, really? Events in Nathan’s childhood—Jimmy, bleeding from a gaping stab wound to the chest and dying in Nathan’s arms—led Nathan to take risks as adult. His role in Jimmy’s death made Nathan go inside that bank. What horrible childhood moment sent Joe inside?